Fathers and Sons
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Takes place after the events of One Day, One Room. Cuddy begins to suspect that House was abused as a child.


Cuddy had gotten into the habit of taking evening runs in the park after work. It probably wasn't the safest thing to do—if her father were still alive he'd be flooding her inbox with statistics on the increase in park assaults after dark—but the cool night air always helped her think.

She was processing her day—or more accurately (and predictably), processing her day's interactions with House—when she noticed a solitary male figure sitting on a picnic table, staring into the lake.

It was like she had summoned him.

"House!"

She surprised him—he had been deep in thought—but he recovered quickly.

"Remind me to write a thank you note to the guy who invented Spandex," he said, eyeing her lewdly.

"Very funny, House. What are you doing here?"

She ran in place, trying to keep her heart rate up.

"Apparently, sightseeing," he said, folding his arms, staring brazenly at her chest.

She stopped running, embarrassed.

"I don't know House," she said. "It looks like I stumbled across something really depressing here."

"I'm happy as a kid in a sports bra store," he said.

"Oh yeah, and that open bottle of the bourbon next to you just screams, 'I love my life.'"

"Want some?" he said, waving the bottle in front of her face. "It'll keep your electrolytes up. . .or down. I always forget how that goes."

She frowned.

"I'll pass," she said.

She gave him a knowing look.

"I think we both know know why you're here."

"Oh, this ought to be good."

"She got to you, didn't she?"

"Who?" He was playing dumb.

"That girl today, Eve. Your rape victim. You're still thinking about her. It's okay, House. I won't tell anyone at work that you're actually human."

"Yes Cuddy, your master plan actually worked," he said sarcastically. "I spent one day interacting with my fellow man and now I see the error of my ways. I'm up with people! I'm a lover of puppies and babies and humanity! I'm actually thinking of closing up the diagnostic unit and joining Doctors Without Borders."

"Keep deflecting, House," she said.

"As if," he said.

"What did you two talk about anyway?" Cuddy asked.

"The instability of the European trade market," House said.

"Uh huh. And the more you joke, the more convinced I am that this girl got to you."

"We talked. She cried. She moaned. She wanted to talk about her pain. She wanted me to talk about mine."

He meant the last part as a throwaway line, but, of course, it got Cuddy's attention.

"And what did you tell her about your pain?"

"That my leg hurts," he said.

"I'm pretty sure she was talking about psychic pain."

"That might explain why she found my answers about the anatomy of my infarction so boring."

Cuddy nodded, as if something had just occurred to her.

"Makes sense," she said.

He frowned.

"What makes sense?"

"That you're thinking about her now. About her emotional pain. And yours."

House looked at his watch. "Don't you have a run you need to get back to? I understand it's much harder to maintain that girlish figure when you're no longer a girl."

She smiled tolerantly.

"I'll let you wallow in your solitude," she said. "But don't wallow too much, House. You have clinic duty all day tomorrow, too."

"Please go away. But can you do it in slow motion? Helps with the mental picture I'm taking for later."

"Goodnight, House."

She sprinted off quickly.

"Run, Cuddy, run!" he yelled after her.

######

He was painfully bored the next day at work. It was an endless barrage of runny noses, broken limbs, and pregnancy scares. He had begged his team to find him a case to get him out of clinic duty—anything, even a mysterious burst appendix would do—but as usual, they were useless.

They were probably all complicit in Cuddy's attempt to help him find his missing humanity.

But my humanity is not a lost dog, he thought. You can't put up a sign in the park for it with a reward. "Lost: House's humanity. Is cuddly and caring and answers to the name . . . James Wilson."

He chuckled at the thought.

A throat cleared.

He looked up. A father and son had been ushered into the clinic. It was hard to say how long they had been standing there. The boy, who was about 10 years old, was holding his arm lamely. It was pretty obviously broken. The father was wearing a business suit. He had a Blackberry in his hand and he looked impatient.

"Are we keeping you from some very important day dreaming?" the father said.

House looked down at the chart, ignored him.

"You're Jack?" he said to the boy.

"Uh huh."

"What happened to your arm, Jack?"

"He fell off his bike," the father said. "He was trying to do wheelies—which I _repeatedly_ told him not to do—and he wiped out."

The boy looked at his feet.

House pressed on the boy's wrist.

"Does that hurt?"

The boy winced in pain.

"I think your wheelie days are behind you, at least for now," House said.

He turned the boy's wrist over. There was a pretty nasty rug burn on the back of his arm.

"How'd you get that, Jack?"

"Scraped his arm when he landed," the father said.

"Is your name Jack?" House said, annoyed.

"Actually yes," the dad replied.

House looked down at the chart.

"Oh," he said. "I'm pretty sure Jack Jr. here can talk for himself."

"He's shy," the dad said.

"So you scraped your arm on the pavement?"

"Yes sir," the boy said quietly.

"Do you think it's broken?" the dad interrupted.

"Yeah, actually I do," House said.

"He's so clumsy," the father said. He went to ruffle his son's hair and the boy flinched, ever so slightly.

House looked at them.

"I'm going to arrange for an X-ray," he said, backing out of the room. "Sit tight, Jack and Jack. I'll be right back."

He limped straight from the clinic and into Cuddy's office.

"We need to call Child Protective Services," he said.

"What? Why?"

"I have a 10-year boy in the clinic who is clearly the victim of abuse."

Cuddy stood up, concerned.

"How do you know?"

"The dad said he fell off his bike. But his injuries are consistent with someone whose arm was twisted behind his back."

Cuddy gave him a look.

"Come on, House, you can't tell that just by looking at it."

"Actually, I can," House said. "Also, the boy was unusually quiet."

"A shy 10 year old! Imagine that."

"And he's clearly afraid of his dad," House said.

She folded her arms.

"Based on what?"

"Based on, he flinched when his dad went to touch him."

"Maybe because he's—I don't know—in pain?"

"I know what I saw," House said stubbornly.

"And maybe you're just inventing dramas because you're bored and a simple broken arm isn't stimulating enough for you?"

"If you're so skeptical, come see for yourself."

"Fine," she said.

She followed him back to the exam room.

"Hi Jack," she said brightly. "I'm Dr. Cuddy. I'm here for a consult."

"Hi," Jack said, swinging his legs from the edge of the exam table.

Cuddy looked down at the chart.

"Mr. Matthews, if it's okay with you, we'd like to have a word with your son alone."

"What for?" the dad asked, furrowing his brow

"Just to ask him a few questions. Sometimes children are more free to answer questions when their parents aren't in the room."

"What kind of questions do you need to ask him alone? He fell off his bike! End of story."

"If you don't mind," Cuddy said patiently. "It should just take a few moments."

"Anything you can say in front of Jack you can say in front of me," the father insisted. "Right, Jack?"

"Right dad."

"We want to know if your father broke your arm," House said.

"House!" Cuddy scolded.

The father took a threatening step toward House.

"Are you out of your mind?"

Cuddy stepped in between them.

"I apologize for Dr. House's behavior," she said. "It's completely unprofessional."

"I would never lay a hand on this child!" the father sputtered. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"Jack still hasn't answered the question," House said, focusing on the boy. He leaned down and said gently: "Jack, no one is going to be mad at you if you tell the truth. Telling the truth is always the right thing to do."

"Go ahead, Jack. Tell him," the father said.

"I fell off my bike," Jack said.

"You sure?" Cuddy said.

"Positive," the boy said. "I was doing wheelies and I fell."

"I'm calling a lawyer," Mr. Matthews said. "I could sue this hospital for slander."

"That won't be necessary," Dr. Cuddy said, putting a hand on Mr. Matthew's shoulder and glaring at House. "I'm going to assign you a new doctor and we're going to get Jack an X-ray—at no charge, of course. I apologize for any misunderstanding. When it comes to children, I think we all agree, it's always best to err on the side of caution."

The father folded his arms, in a slightly conciliatory way.

"No charge for the X-ray?" he said.

"None whatsoever," Cuddy said. "If you would just follow me to radiology."

And Jack and his father followed her out of the clinic.

#######

Later, she stopped by House's office.

"What on earth is wrong with you?"

"Thanks for having my back, Cuddy," he mumbled.

"There was absolutely no indication that that boy had been abused."

"You're going to feel pretty damn guilty later when little Jack comes back with a concussion—or worse."

"I'll take my chances," she said, turning to leave.

Then she stopped. A thought had begun to take shape in the back of her head.

"But what was that all about, House? Really."

"It was about a little boy whose father practically snapped his arm in two."

"And it had nothing to do with Eve? Nothing at all."

"I don't see the connection."

"You told me she asked about your pain," Cuddy said.

"So what?"

"So. . .your father. . .did he . . ." she hesitated. "Did he hurt you?"

House rolled his eyes.

"Here we go. Do you want me to talk about my dreams? Should I lie down on the couch? Although I can think of plenty of more fun things we can both do while I'm down there."

"I'm serious, House."

House looked her squarely in the eye.

"No," he said. "My father did not hurt me. Did he tell me he loved me often enough? No, he didn't. Did he miss a ballgame here or there? Yes. Did he disappoint me, like all fathers disappoint all sons? Most definitely. But he did not abuse me."

"Okay," Cuddy said, skeptically.

"And even if he had beaten the crap out of me—and this is a strictly hypothetical _if_—it wouldn't affect my medical judgment. And I'm frankly insulted that you think it would."

"I didn't mean to insult you," she said.

"Too late," he replied.

######

That night, at about 9 pm, there was a knock on House's door.

He opened it. It was Cuddy.

"Have you come to cast more aspersions on my medical judgment?" he asked.

"No, I've come to apologize," she admitted.

He gave her a quizzical look. Stepped aside to let her in.

"After I left your office I made a few phone calls," she said. "Turns out, Mr. Matthews had brought Jack to 4 different hospitals in the last five months. Once he claimed Jack got into a fight in school. Another time, he claimed he fell down the stairs. At Princeton General, he said that Jack was thrown from a horse. He's an abuser, House. The cops have taken him into custody."

"Surprise, surprise," House said bitterly.

"I feel like a real jerk," Cuddy said.

House shrugged, letting her off the hook.

"You were just being responsible. You were right. I had no proof. It was just a hunch."

"A hunch based on. . .?"

"Based on 25 years of medical experience."

"And that's all?"

"Jesus, Cuddy. It's like you want it to be true. It's like you think that maybe if my father _had_ beaten me with a switch that would explain why I'm such an asshole."

"Was it a switch?" Cuddy said pointedly. She looked at him searchingly in the eyes.

Something in the directness of her gaze broke him a bit. He looked down at the floor.

"Don't do this, Cuddy," he said, his voice quavering.

"Do what?"

"Don't poke at my subconscious with a stick. It's not a pretty place. You don't want to visit it. And you sure as hell don't want to live there."

"But there is something to talk about."

"No," he said.

"Okay, House. . . okay." She nodded, still not believing, but understanding. "Goodnight then. You did good today."

She turned to leave.

"Wait," he said, sounding a little desperate. "Don't go."

"Why not?"

Her hand was on the doorknob.

"Because. . .you just got here."

"But there's no reason for me to stay."

She opened the door.

"It was a belt," House said softly.

Cuddy stopped in her tracks. Let go of the door, which closed heavily.

"A good old fashioned belt. My dad was nothing if not a traditionalist."

"House. . ." She turned and looked at him. Unexpectedly, she felt her eyes welling with tears.

"He kept the buckle nice and polished—military order you know. It was important to maintain proper grooming even while beating the shit out of your son.

"House. . ." she took his hand. "I'm so sorry."

"But that wasn't the worst part," House said, still looking at the floor.

There was something almost mechanical in his voice. Like he was determined to tell her the truth—even if he had to pretend he was talking about somebody else.

"The worst part was the ice baths. It felt like hot needles were piercing my skin. One night, he dunked my head under the water. Held me down as I flailed around."

She squeezed his hand harder.

"House you don't have to tell me any of this. . ."

"You said you wanted to hear it," he said, finally looking at her. "So hear it."

"Okay," she said weakly.

"I was drowning in my own fucking bathtub. I was starting to lose consciousness. He finally let go and just walked away, as I coughed up water and gasped for air."

"My God, House. . . My God."

"Then there were the petty abuses. . . the times he locked me out of the house in the middle of winter, the time he made me eat dog food because I hadn't sufficiently thanked Mom for dinner, the countless times he called me a worthless piece of shit—that became white noise at a certain point."

"House. . ."

She wanted two things: She wanted him to stop talking, because she couldn't bear to hear anymore. And she wanted, as always, to ease his pain. So she hugged him, holding him close. Then, almost on instinct, she began kissing him.

He kissed back, cautiously at first, then roughly, greedily—receiving the gift she was giving him like he was entitled to it. His hands were all over her—he was yanking off her clothing, wildly kissing her neck, her breasts, her mouth—it was as if he couldn't contain himself.

And before she could even have time to consider it—to put on the brakes, to reflect on the consequences of her actions—they were both lost in the fog of desire.

He picked her up and carried her to the bedroom.

########

Then, predictably, things got weird between them.

In a way, it was like they had almost shared something _too_ intense, too intimate—not just the sex, but House's confession, the depth of his trust in her. So they avoided each other at work—and when they were forced to interact, it was cautious, formal.

Even House's team began to notice.

"What's up with you and Cuddy?" Foreman asked House.

"What do you mean?"

"You're being _nice _to each other."

"She's my boss," House said testily. "I'm told being nice to her is in my best interest." Then he shot him a look: "You oughta try it some time."

Cuddy kept waiting for House to come to her, to open up again, but he didn't. She actually considered telling Wilson about the abuse. House needed to talk to somebody, right? Who better than his best friend? But it wasn't her secret to tell.

So she remained silent.

A few times, she saw House in the halls, looking sad—or was she just imagining it?—and she had an almost overwhelming urge to go up to him, to hug him, to murmur words of comfort in his ear.

But she did nothing. She could never force House to talk to her. He would come to her eventually—she just knew it.

And she was right.

One night, a few weeks after they hooked up, Cuddy was jogging in the park again, and there he was. He was on the picnic table again, lying down—just as she had found him that first day of clinic duty, the day he had met Eve—staring up at the night sky.

She knew House well enough to know that this wasn't a coincidence: It was his way of reaching out. He would never admit it, but he wanted to talk to her again, or at the very least be near her.

So she jogged over.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"A thousand points of thermonuclear fusion," he said.

"Thank you, Galileo," she said.

He smiled sadly.

"How's your run going?"

"Good," she said, still running in place.

"You wanna take a star gazing break?"

She stopped.

"Sure," she said, wiping a sweaty lock of hair off her face.

He scooted over and pat the table next to him.

"It's better if you're lying down."

Reluctantly, she climbed on the table and lay beside him.

He took off his wool coat, and without saying a word, lay it over them both like a blanket.

He was right. The perspective from the table was stunning. She felt like she was in a planetarium.

"I can see Orion," she said.

"Yes. Or, as I like to call it, Betelgeuse, Rigel, Bellatrix, Mintaka, Ainilam, Ainitak, and Saiph," he said.

"You really know how to sweet talk a lady," Cuddy said, chuckling.

"So they tell me. . ."

They were quiet for a long while, both just contemplating the stars.

Finally, House said: "I think I'd like to tell you more about my father."

THE END


End file.
